


The Smallest of Flames (Extended Version)

by lobstergirl



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin Skywalker becomes Darth Vader once and for all, Gen, one last shot at friendship, the Dark Side doesn't share
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8248624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lobstergirl/pseuds/lobstergirl
Summary: When Kalurosh Tardak reports for duty at the Emperor Palpatine Surgical Reconstruction Center, he knows next to nothing about the patient he’s been assigned to work with, has merely been told that the patient had undergone massive surgery after a horrible accident that cost him both legs, an arm and nearly burnt him to death.But Kalurosh quickly finds out this new patient is not at all what he has expected…





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Dark Lord - The Rise of Darth Vader](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/233524) by James Luceno. 



> For Susanne. Always.

 

“Forgive me. I have failed you after all.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You have not failed me.”

The blue-skinned humanoid lies motionless amidst a heap of boxes and crates of various shapes and sizes, lies there as if carelessly thrown away. His legs are bent at unnatural angles and his left upper arm is a shapeless pulp of flesh and bone. His breathing is shallow, wet and wheezy, his voice barely more than a whisper but the black-clad figure kneeling next to him hears him loud and clear.

“You have not failed me,” he says again, his electronically enhanced voice calm and steady as always. “Quite the contrary. I have failed you. I should never have singled you out the way I did. It is I who is to blame for this.”

The dying man manages a weak chuckle that ends in a convulsive coughing fit. “You could never fail me, my lord. It’s been an honour and a privilege to serve you.” He raises his uninjured right as if to touch the other’s face but there’s not enough strength left in him and his hand falls. Before it hits the floor it’s caught by a gloved hand.

“Do you want me to end this for you?”

“Would you, my lord?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

The man in black lets go of the other man’s hand and spread his fingers over his chest, above the two hearts of which only one is still beating, weakly, irregularly. He closes his eyes, feels for the thin thread of life. _There_. Not much longer now but if he can end the man’s suffering, he will. He knows too much about pain and suffering, and the man lying before him deserves better.

“Ready?” he asks.

A nod, then—“Will you tell me your name before I go, my lord?”

The tall figure stills. It’s a question that isn’t ever asked, nor is it ever answered. His name has no longer a meaning. It does not signify. It’s not who he is. Not anymore. And yet…

“Anakin,” he says. “My name is—was Anakin.”

“Anakin,” whispers the man. “I will see you in the Force.”

“I know.” And with that, he cuts the life thread, stops the fluttering heart. When the last breath has left the body, he gently covers the amber eyes with his gloved hand. “Goodbye, my friend.”  

 

Three years earlier

Kalurosh Tardak reported for duty at the Emperor Palpatine Surgical Reconstruction Center, or the EmPal SuReCon Center, as it was more commonly known. He knew next to nothing about the patient he had been assigned to work with, had merely been told that the patient had undergone massive surgery after a horrible accident that had cost him both legs, an arm and had nearly burnt him to death. The recruiting process for that position had taken forever, had not only included a painstaking background search, an equally thorough test of his practical skills, theoretical knowledge and even his physical fitness, no, he had had to endure a more than unpleasant mind-probe. When all results had been found satisfactory, he had been taken before the Emperor himself who had subjected him to the most bizarre job interview of his life. Standing before the hooded form of his Imperial Majesty, he had briefly toyed with the idea of respectfully declining the flattering offer and return to the private hospital where he was the most sought after therapist—but somehow he had suspected that declining was not an option, and so he had humbly accepted his new position and had equally humbly received his orders.

He had never been so frightened before.

 

Now he was sitting on a chair in a treatment room but as his new patient was nowhere near in sight, he busied himself with drafting a strategy of how to start treatment. He had not received any information on the current status. How mobile was the patient? Was he in a hover chair? Was he able to communicate? Did he resent his new physical reality or would he be willing to work on finding his way back into life? What kind of prostheses had he received, if at all? Was he old? Young? Was there family to be involved? Questions and more questions.

Heavy steps approached and he jumped up as the door was flung open.

“Good afternoon, sir, Kalurosh Tardak at your—“ Whatever he was about to say got stuck in his throat. What the…?

A giant form loomed in the doorway, dressed in black from head to toe in what looked like full body armour. Shiny helmet, facial mask. A blinking unit attached to his chest, more blinking units on his belt. Mechanical, regulated breathing. Black gloves. Black top boots. Floor length black cape. Black tabard.

Kalurosh tried not to stare. What _was_ that thing?

“You are Tardak?”

That voice. A deep bass tone that held enough sarcasm to make Kalurosh raise his chin.

“I certainly am. And you are—?”

“I am not in need of a pleasure slave.”

“A pleasure—” Heat crept up his neck. “I am not a pleasure slave,” he said indignantly. “I am a certified physical therapist and a freelance combat trainer in my spare time.”

The black giant cocked his head. Despite the mask’s lack of facial expression, Kalurosh felt he was being looked over and found inadequate.

“You look athletic enough,” the bass voice finally said, “but so do exotic dancers. What’s that you’re wearing?”

Kalurosh looked down and along his body. The short embroidered vest and slit trousers he had chosen were a little flamboyant, maybe, but nothing out of the ordinary. He knew very well the colours he had chosen flattered his pale blue skin, the silver bracelets emphasised his slender wrists and the stud in his bellybutton matched the amber of his eyes. Nothing that would raise eyebrows, make lekku twitch or tentacles quiver. Not outside a temple, in any case.

“Not the right outfit to work with your master?” It was out before he could stop himself.

“My—master?” The pause was small but it was audible nevertheless.

Kalurosh drew a hissing breath.

“Oh kriffing— _you_ are my patient?” He dropped to one knee, bowed his head. “Forgive me, sir, I thought—” he faltered. That was it. Done. Over before it had even started. Handpicked by the Emperor himself and he never made it past introductions. _Well done, Rosh._

“You thought I was a guard of some sort?”

“I did. Forgive me. I apologise. Forgive my ignorance.” _Please don’t kill me._

The silence seemed to weigh a ton. Then, a sigh.

“Get up, Tardak. We have work to do.”

“Sir?”

“Follow me. I will tell you all you need to know once we arrive at the training chamber.”

Kalurosh rose from his kneeling position and looked up into the reflective lenses. “Thank you, sir. You will not regret hiring me.”

“I hope so. For your sake.”

The tall figure turned around and walked towards the lifts with long but slow, deliberate steps. His billowing cape made it impossible for Kalurosh to study his movements and so he hurried to walk next to him. He wasn’t sure how to categorise his new patient—man? Machine? Cyborg? _Being_ seemed the best and most neutral term for now. In any case, he clearly was not comfortable with his prosthetic limbs yet and that was as good a start as anything.

“How may I address you, sir?” Kalurosh asked when they were standing next to each other in the lift.

“You may call me Lord Vader.”

A lord? As in aristocracy? _All right_.

“Lord Vader,” he began cautiously, “where do you suggest we should start with your, uhm, treatment?”

The mask turned towards him. “I need to adjust my fighting style,” the bass voice said. “I can no longer move the way I used to. My previous fighting style does not match my new situation. It will be your job to change that.”

“I beg your pardon?” Just as he had felt heat creep up his neck earlier, Kalurosh now felt all colour being drained from his face. He was to do combat training with that… that _thing_?

“Haven’t you told me only moments ago that you are a freelance combat trainer?”

“Yes, but—”

“And haven’t you been briefed and tested before you came here?”

“Yes, but—”

“So it’s settled. You are to spar with me and to restore my… combat-readiness.”

“Right.” He fell silent. When the lift door opened, he ventured, “And what combat form are we talking about, sir?”

“Swordfight,” Vader said and stepped out of the lift.

“Sword-”

“Do you make it a habit to never finish your sentences, Tardak? That will have to change.” Vader glanced over his shoulder. “Along with your outfit.”

“Uh, yes. Sir.”

For all that Vader didn’t seem comfortable with his prosthetic legs, Kalurosh still had to hurry to keep up with him. He was, after all, only some five foot seven compared to Vader’s, what, six foot six, six foot seven? How the stars was he to spar with a giant like that? Moreover, a giant who seemed more heavy machinery than a living, breathing being? And just how many miles of corridor were there to cover? How would he ever find his way back?

“You will be escorted back,” Vader said.

“What—”

“Until you know your way.”

“How do you—can you—”

“Yes.”

_A kriffing mind-reader?_

“Yes.”

_Ah fuck._

Was that an electronic snort?

“I’m sorry, my lord. I shall try to put a lid on my thoughts from now on.”

“You do that.”

After a few more turns that led them into a heavily guarded sector of the Center they arrived at a door that said _Physical Therapy_ on a small plastic sign. Vader pushed it open and stepped through.

The room was huge, well-lit, with high ceilings and no windows. It was also completely empty. Not only were there no pictures on the walls, there was absolutely no training equipment. No mats, sticks, balls, weights, machines, rubber bands—nothing he used when working with his patients.

“The hell?” Kalurosh scratched his head and looked around. “This is, uh, unusual,” he carefully said.

“Not to your liking?”

“There is nothing here to dislike, my lord.”

“And nothing will distract us from the task at hand.”

“True, my lord.”

“Whatever equipment you deem necessary will be brought here.”

“Ah, good. So,” he brought his hands together with a loud clap. The sound all but echoed through the empty room and he winced. “Well, Lord Vader, I should like to take a look at your physical mobility. If we are to get you combat-ready, as you said, I need to study your movements to understand what I’ll be working with.”

“Very well. What do you want me to do?”

“For now, I’d like you to just walk around the room. Oh, and may I ask you to remove the cape? Please?”

Vader complied with his request and started walking up and down, following Kalurosh’s directions who after a while asked him to turn, bend, crouch, walk a little faster, bounce on his toes.

“Thank you, my lord,” he finally said. “May I take a closer look at your boots?”  

He knelt down next to Vader and inspected his heavy boots from up close. They appeared to be some sort of combat boots with heavy shin armour hinged to the sides.

“Would you remove one boot for me or is that not possible? I mean,” he added when the mask turned towards him, “is your prosthesis somehow attached to the boot and you will—uh, you can’t stand without it?”

“I will not fall over, if that is what you’re trying to ask me. It’s a boot. Of course it can be taken off.”

“I will do it for you,” Kalurosh hastily said when Vader bent down. “Just tell me how to remove the armour. I don’t see how it fastens to the boot.”

The armour came off easily enough. Removing the boot was a little trickier but Kalurosh eventually managed. Vader stood balancing awkwardly on his left booted foot, apparently not trusting his naked, skeletal prosthesis to carry his weight and Kalurosh immediately made a mental note of that. The boot was heavily padded to provide definition and was raised in the heel for no apparent reason. Kalurosh gave a low whistle.

“I see,” he said. “Tell me, my lord, do you receive any feedback from your feet? Do they automatically adjust to the surface? What I mean is –,” he frowned, searching for the right word, “is there sensitivity in your toes? Electrostatic sensitivity?”

“There is not.”

“In that case, whoever had your boots made was a fool.”

“Why is that?”

“Your prostheses were not designed to walk in boots like that. The raised heel, although it’s far from being an actual high heel, cants you forward by a few degrees. Now, prostheses that are electrostatically sensitive have no problem with that. They automatically transport that information to the patient’s brain, like a natural foot would do, so the patient can adjust his or her body posture. Your feet won’t do that and unless we find better boots for you, you’ll always walk on the proverbial egg shells.”

He had helped Vader put the boot back on while he was speaking and when the shin armour was fastened, he rose from his crouching position.

“I think we should concentrate on regaining your full body control before we start the actual sparring, my lord. If it’s swordfight you’re specialised in, we could go through a few simple moves with wooden practice swords or sticks until you trust your body enough to start working on a new fighting style.”

The tall man studied him for a few moments, then nodded his assent.

“Very well, Tardak.” He reached for his cape. “Meet me tomorrow at oh-eight-hundred standard time. You will receive restricted clearance for the time being and you will be escorted by one of my personal guards at all times.”

“To make sure I don’t lose my way, sir?” Kalurosh asked with a small smile.

“That, and to prevent you from wandering about until you have proven to be trustworthy.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I’m not sure you do.” He opened the door. “And Tardak?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Wear something that’s more befitting your status.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

So began Kalurosh’s time in the service of Lord Vader.

At first he carried on as he always had—meeting friends, offering his combat training skills to youth centres, roaming the bazaars, attending various festivities. He was paid handsomely, after all, and was allowed to spend his free time as he saw fit. With the irregular schedule his latest and most challenging patient subjected him to, however, he soon learnt that the life he had led before was over, and so did those around him.

“I never see you anymore,” complained his latest conquest, a young Zabrak male who went by the name of Caze. “Is it true you quit your job at the hospital?”

“Yes. I handed in my resignation two weeks ago.”

“Why? I thought you liked it there.”

“I did.”

“Didn’t they pay you well enough?”

“Oh, they paid very well. It’s just—” he shrugged a shoulder. “This new job is like nothing I’ve ever done before and it’s started to take up most of my time. I don’t really have time for my other clients anymore and that’s just not fair.”

“What’s your new boss like?” Caze asked, curious. “Is it true he’s a lord?”

Kalurosh arched one of his eyebrows. “My dear, sweet boy,” he said mildly, knowing how much Caze hated being treated like a youngling. “You don’t seriously expect me to disclose my client’s identity.”

“Come on, what’s the big deal?” Caze pouted his pretty pout. “You’re a physical therapist, not an escort, right?” He stretched lazily, putting his graceful, lithe body on full display. He was shameless and provocative, very much what Kalurosh liked in a fling. “Is your lord prettier than me?”

Kalurosh bit back a laugh. “‘Pretty’ isn’t the word I’d use for him.”

“Oh?”

“Imposing, maybe. Intimidating. He’s huge.”

Caze rolled over to lie on his side and propped his head up on a hand. “Huge, huh? Intimidating? So that’s the secret then.”

“Shut up. I’m not his pleasure slave, you know.” The memory of his first encounter with Lord Vader shot through his mind, when his new employer had taken him for just that, a pleasure slave.

“Shame. I’m sure that’d pay even better. You’ve muscled up nicely, you know.” Caze’s yellow eyes scanned Kalurosh from head to toe. “I’m finding it hard to believe he doesn’t see how hot you are.”

“I’m wearing tunic and breeches when I work with him, not the stuff I used to wear at the hospital. He likes it better that way.”

“For your protection or his own?”

“Shut up,” Kalurosh said again, grinning. “I’m fairly certain he’s not interested.”

“His loss.” Caze stretched out his hand. “Come here, busy boy. Let me show you my interpretation of physical therapy.”

It was a fascinating approach, breathtaking, too, and as soon as Kalurosh had his pulse back under control, he lost no time to praise Caze for his creativity and most admirable stamina.

 

Despite all, however, he began to withdraw from his former life over the next months and adapted himself fully to his new master’s needs and demands, but he did so without much regret. After less than three Standard months in Lord Vader’s service, he packed up his belongings, exchanged his flamboyant outfits once and for all with fighting leathers and simple, well-cut tunics and trousers, said good-bye to Caze—that he did do with regret—and moved into a small apartment in Vader’s palace in Imperial City.

Lord Vader was an unusual employer and if that was the understatement of a lifetime, Kalurosh couldn’t think of any other way to describe him. He was fearsome with a terrible temper, had little to no patience and possessed absolutely no compassion. Not that he was unnecessarily cruel—at least not when Kalurosh was around and never towards him, but it was as though he had detached himself from what was around him in ways Kalurosh couldn’t understand. He couldn’t make head nor tail of Vader and that intrigued and mystified him for he had always prided himself of an almost uncanny ability to read his patients. When it came to reading Vader, he hit a brick wall and it had nothing to do with the mask.

 

The day he found out his master was a Force user marked a turn in their close yet strangely impersonal relationship.

Kalurosh was setting up the training room when Vader strolled in. He now walked with a sure step, his new boots supporting his prosthetic feet the way he needed them to, and his overall body posture and control had vastly improved.

“I’ve had enough of wooden sticks and practice swords,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Let’s not waste any more time.”

“Very well, my lord. I am more than happy—” Whatever Kalurosh was about to say died in his throat. An all-too familiar buzzing made his stomach plummet to the ground and he took an involuntary step back.

“What is it, Tardak? Have you not seen a lightsabre before?”

“I have, my lord.” It came out as a hoarse whisper. “I have.”

“Then you will know what to do.” Vader threw him a second weapon and Kalurosh instinctively caught it, pressed the button that powered it up and stared at the blue laser beam.

“This is a Jedi’s weapon,” he choked out. “I can’t—I just—I’m sorry, my lord.”

He switched the blade off, dropped the weapon and fled from the room, ran to his quarters as if hunted by a squadron of battle droids and bolted the door behind him. Heart pounding, he dropped down on his assortment of colourful cushions and curled himself into a tight ball. A lightsabre. A Jedi’s weapon. _Please don’t let him be a Jedi. Please. Don’t._

A wave of misery washed over him, filled with memories, heartbreak and a hatred that sat so deep he didn’t feel it most of the time, so accustomed had he become to the steady burning inside of him. He didn’t allow himself to walk down that particular memory lane much for it shifted his focus from the life he had built for himself to the life that might have been, and that invariably led to bouts of self-pity, self-hate and too much drinking.

A hammering on his door stopped his downward spiral. He sat up and wiped the tears from his eyes but before he had even begun thinking about whether or not to walk the door, it flew open.

“May I ask what that was all about?” thundered Vader. It was a rhetorical question, obviously, and Kalurosh didn’t bother answering it, ducked his head instead. “How dare you run away like that, Tardak?”

Vader crossed the room with long strides, not bothering to close the door behind him, Force-yanked Kalurosh up and seized him by the throat, choking the air out of him. Kalurosh instinctively tried to free himself from the merciless hold but at the same time knew it was pointless. He of all people should be familiar with what Vader could do—after all, hadn’t he helped him develop a new body awareness?

“I do not tolerate that kind of behaviour,” the mechanical bass voice said, now with its usual calm. “However, given your outstanding performance up to that moment I am willing to listen before I decide what to do with you.”

The tight grip around Kalurosh’s throat loosened and he fell gracelessly back into the cushions.

“Forgive me, Lord Vader,” he croaked. “I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just that I—” he realised he was groping for words, stopped fishing for a tactful approach and blurted out, “Are you a Jedi?” There. How did the old saying go? In for a penny, in for a pound.

Vader visibly started. Well, it was visible to Kalurosh who had learnt to read Vader’s minimalistic body language. Someone else might have missed it altogether.

“No,” he slowly said, still towering above Kalurosh. “I am not. Why would that be a reason to bolt from the chamber?”

“I hate the Jedi! They’ve taken everything from me, everything! The high and mighty Jedi council, so far removed from all of us. Self-righteous, holier-than-thou bastards! I hate them!” He punched the cushion next to him, as if to emphasise his last words. “I’m glad they got themselves killed and I hope the rest of them gets hunted down, too. I can’t and won’t work for a Jedi!” His voice had risen to a scream and he shrank back into himself when he realised it.

“You… hate the Jedi?” Vader asked.

Kalurosh sniffed and wiped his cheeks. “I do,” he said. “They’ve taken my baby sister. She was sent to some temple in the Outer Rims and we’ve not heard from her again. When Father died, we weren’t even allowed to send her a message. Her own father! My mother’s heart broke that day. And they’ve stolen my lover. He was charged for disobeying the ‘no attachment’ rule. We didn’t even get to say good-bye. Keepers of the peace, yeah? Destroyers of families and friendships, that’s what they are. I left Pantora the day our mother died. There’s nothing left to keep me there.”

“Your sister was a Jedi?”

“Don’t speak of her as if she’s dead. You don’t know that.”

Vader slowly lowered himself into the wide armchair next to the cushions. He looked very much out of place amidst all the bright colours and soft materials; an obsidian in a field of flowers.

“Tell me about your sister,” he said. “What’s her name?”

“Her name is Mishalyn,” Kalurosh replied. “She’s a bright little thing, with skin of a darker blue than mine and her hair is golden, not silver. She has two tiny little horns here,” he pointed to the sides of his forehead, “and they turn dark when she gets angry.”

“Horns? On a Pantoran?”

“Yes. There’s Zabrak blood in my father’s family.”

“I never noticed.”

“You couldn’t have.” He pulled his hair back, flattened it against his skull. “See? No horns. Misha’s got the horns, and I have two hearts. Mother used to say I had their arrogance, too, and their drive for perfection.”

And before he knew what he was doing, words started tumbling out of his mouth and he told Vader everything that he remembered, poured his heart out to this strange black giant who listened to him without uttering a syllable. If it hadn’t been for his mechanical breathing, he might as well been a sitting statue. He even told him about Sellan, his lover, whose Force sensitivity had been discovered late in his teens and who had been snatched up by the Jedi order nevertheless, on the grounds of his midi-chlorian count being above average.

“How about your own midi-chlorian count?” Vader asked. “I would not have expected one so closely associated with the Jedi to be assigned this post.”

Kalurosh shrugged. “I told them everything when I was interviewed. Well, I didn’t tell them my life story the way I just told you, but I did tell them about my sister and about Sellan, too. They would have found out anyway and I thought I better get it out in the open. I was mind-probed, too.” He frowned. “I’m pretty sure they checked my midi-chlorian count as well but unless it’s miraculously exploded over the last years, it’s below average. I’m not Force-sensitive. If I have a presence in the Force at all, it surely is the smallest of flames.”

“Even the smallest of flames can light the way home in darkness,” Vader remarked. “Never underestimate the Force, Tardak. Wouldn’t you agree your ability to attune yourself to your clients’ needs sets you apart from the average trainer?”

“I –,” he began but stopped himself. He’d never given it much thought but it was true. He’d always been able to sense what his clients needed and had adjusted therapy accordingly, had always known when to change treatment, had always felt how best to approach a difficult subject. “I guess so,” he slowly said. “What does that make me?”

“It makes you an exceptional trainer and I would be most unwilling to let you go. I am no Jedi, Tardak. I am a Sith Lord. Do you know what that means?”

Kalurosh blinked. “It’s some sort of dark side religion, yes? Sith use the dark side of the Force and are the sworn enemies of the Jedi.”

Vader inclined his head. “That’s a very simplified way of putting it but it is correct. I have personally destroyed the Jedi Academy and all of its students and I have sworn an oath to hunt down all remaining Jedi until my dying breath. Will you help me achieve my goal?”

Kalurosh slid off the cushions and came to kneel before his master.

“I will, Lord Vader. I swear it.”

Vader took his chin into a gloved hand, forcing his face up and looked at him. Kalurosh saw his own reflection in the bulbous lenses of Vader’s facial mask, saw his eyes grow wide as Vader entered his mind. Vader’s mind-probe was more brutal than the one the Emperor had subjected him to but at the same time, it was a lot less unpleasant. It was blunt and direct and when Vader released him, he didn’t feel as violated and soiled as he had back then.

“And I accept,” Vader said. “What’s more, I promise I will find out about your sister and your lover. Should they still be alive, I give you my word I will have them brought in for questioning. Unharmed.”

“Thank you, my lord. That’s already more than I ever hoped for.”

Vader got up, a lot less stiffly and awkwardly than he had been when he had sat down. _Does he use the Force to do that?_

“I do.”

“Uh—”

“Get up, Kalurosh. We have work to do.”

Kalurosh’s head snapped up. Had Vader just called him by his first name?

“I did. Hurry.”

He got to his feet with a grin so wide it made his facial muscles hurt.

A Sith Lord.

_Thank you, mother of moons. Thank you._

 

Kalurosh received full security clearance after that and was finally granted access to Vader’s medical files. The details of the near fatal accident remained classified, but the details of the surgery Vader had received as well of the suit’s functionalities were laid open before him and Kalurosh painstakingly memorised all details. He began to personally schedule and monitor the required maintenance sessions and when Vader one day emerged from a session in a particularly foul mood, Kalurosh quickly found out he hated the scrubbing most of all. Vader’s body had to be regularly cleansed of necrotic flesh, and it didn’t take Force sensitivity to understand he found the procedure both painful and degrading. He even went so far as to describe the process as being ‘hosed down like a piece of machinery’.

Kalurosh immediately set out to learn everything about synthskin and the required cleansing techniques he could get his hands on, and when the next maintenance session came up, Vader was not greeted by one of the medical droids who usually took care of him but by a masked and suited Kalurosh.

“Greetings, my lord,” he said, his voice electronically distorted by the vocoder. “I thought this might be a bit less unpleasant if I handled it myself.”

Vader stared at him out of eyes that seemed very young in a face that was so hideously scarred. They were good eyes, pretty eyes even and for a fleeting instant Kalurosh wondered what Vader had looked like before his accident. What was left of his face and torso was symmetrical and well-proportioned and he knew from the medical files that Vader was still a young man. Had he been handsome? _Such tragedy._

He hastily put a firm lid on his thoughts. Vader was too quick at picking up his thoughts and Kalurosh didn’t want to appear pitying him. Vader didn’t want pity and so Kalurosh wouldn’t bestow it on him. And yet…

“Well well,” Vader whispered, “you’re everywhere, aren’t you, Kalurosh? I’ll have to search my meditation chamber next if you keep spreading out like that.” His scorched vocal cords were unable to produce anything above a whisper but Kalurosh thought he detected amusement in the weak voice.

“Maybe you should, sir,” he cheerfully replied. “I hear the vitapaste they’re feeding you tastes like Bantha shit and the IV stuff can’t be all that enjoyable either. I could prepare your food, something that’s easy to digest and still tastes like something worth eating. If you want,” he added. “I’d be more than happy to.”

“Don’t get my hopes up, Tardak. I’m beginning to forget what actual food tastes like.”

“I could change that.”

“Just get this over and done with, will you?”

“Of course, sir.”

 

Lord Vader’s blue-skinned servant quickly became a common sight. Where Vader went, Kalurosh went. He kept an eye on his master’s schedule, arranged for a more efficient maintenance system, ran all sorts of errands, hovered nearby whenever Vader needed him, made himself invisible when he was not supposed to be seen. Vader snapped his gloved fingers and Kalurosh snapped to attention, and he did so with a sense of pride. His master was a Sith Lord, after all.

He eventually got into the meditation chamber as well. Without his helmet and mask that regulated his breathing, Vader could only survive inside a hyperbaric surrounding and so had special meditation pods built where he could remove his mask. As Kalurosh didn’t trust the assessments of the medical droids who assured him the oxygenated air wouldn’t harm him, he didn’t venture inside the chamber without wearing a mask. He brought food, just as he had promised; a pureed and mild mixture to avoid upsetting Vader’s digestive tract and when it was found to be agreeable, it was added to Vader’s dietary plan.

They still sparred, too, although Vader no longer needed Kalurosh’s services as a physical therapist. He did most of his sparring with droids but whenever he wanted to try a new technique, he preferred to try the first steps with his most trusted servant first.

 

It was after one of these sessions that Kalurosh learnt of his sister’s fate and of that of his former lover, too. He listened with a stony expression, asked for permission to take the rest of the day off and when permission was granted, locked himself into his chambers and drank himself into oblivion.

When he showed up at the armoury the next morning to pick up the second set of shin armour for Vader’s boots, he was a bit paler than usual but neither the droid nor the human who presented him with the repaired armour thought it wise to comment on that. Talking to Tardak was talking to Vader, and no-one particularly cared talking to or about Vader whose reputation was now such as to silence all conversation.

Kalurosh paid, hurried back to Vader’s palace to drop the armour off and went off to the docks to oversee the delivery of two new sparring droids.

 

At the same time, in the Imperial Palace, Darth Vader knelt before his master, head bowed respectfully.

“You did well on Vir’zo, my friend,” the Emperor said. “This rebel cell has been bothering us for far too long. Am I to understand they have all been wiped out?”

“To the last man, master,” Vader confirmed.

“Well done indeed. I also hear your fighting abilities surpass your former performance by far and no-one matches your duelling skills.”

“You are flattering me, master. It is true that I have a developed a technique that befits my changed situation but I am not invincible.”

“Modesty doesn’t become you, Lord Vader. With the help of your blue-skinned friend, you will continue to grow.” The remark sounded harmless enough and was spoken in a gentle voice and yet, Vader’s inner alarm system shrilled.

“He is hardly my friend, master,” he answered, choosing his words with care. “He is my servant.”

“But you’ve grown fond of him, have you not?”

“He is very useful to me. Not only is he an excellent physical therapist, he’s taken on many more duties, thus allowing me to focus on how to best serve you, my master.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

They were interrupted by a low buzz, indicating a message delivered through the Emperor’s private channel. He signalled for Vader to remain where he was and went to retrieve it. When he returned, his face wore an expression of regret.

“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, my friend,” he said in a sorrowful voice. “There has been an incident at the docks. A shipment for you, yes?”

Vader felt his heartbeat quicken but his breathing remained calm. It always did.

“I’m expecting two new sparring droids, yes. What of them?”

The Emperor sighed. “I’m told one of them was malfunctioning. It attacked the dockworkers and struck down the man signing the papers.” He paused and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I wouldn’t know for sure but I think it may be the servant we just talked about. Blue skin was mentioned. Did you send him to oversee delivery of the droids?”

“I did indeed.”

“Then you better go there at once, my friend.” 

 

****** 

 

Sitting in the pilot seat of his personal T-4a shuttle, Vader follows the body of Kalurosh Tardak with his eyes. When it’s at a safe enough distance, he reaches deep into the Force and sets the body on fire with the power of his mind. It blazes up and is gone just as quickly. The smallest of flames in the vastness of the universe.

“I will see you in the Force, my friend.”

The last person to ever see him unmasked and at his most vulnerable. The last person to ever speak his name.

The last person he’s called ‘friend’.

 

Never again.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by James Luceno’s novel “Dark Lord – The Rise of Darth Vader”. It put me in massive fangirl mode (I’ve always been Vader’s girl) and yet, there was something missing. A lot is said about how inferior Vader’s prosthetic limbs are, how his feet and boots don’t fit together, how the armour is hindering the movements of his arms, how the whole suit just doesn’t fit, how he’s a clumsy fighter and very uncomfortable with his new physical situation. And then, a couple of chapters later, he’s as fit as Anakin’s ever been, only better and a hell of a lot scarier. I was missing a few steps there and would really have liked to read about how this came about. While I do believe that tuning in to the Force will definitely enhance the abilities of one as powerful as Vader, I don’t really think that the Force alone will make up for poor material. Know what I mean?  
> I sat pondering about this for a while and then I thought, KRIFFING HELL I’m a writer. I’m going to write my own version about how clumsy!Vader became badass!Vader… and I’m also going to indulge my little fangirl heart by giving him one last shot at something like friendship. It’s not been too long ago that he was Anakin Skywalker and I believe his humanity was not yet thoroughly quenched then, despite all.  
> So THANK YOU for bearing with me, and THANK YOU for letting me fangirl so hard over the single best villain ever to grace the silver screen.
> 
>  
> 
>  _Note on the extended version of Flames_ : Every now and then a fanfic writer creates an original character he/she is very fond of. Kalurosh Tardak is one of those and I’d been thinking about putting some more flesh on his bones for a while. So here he is with a bit more breathing space. Hope you enjoy reading him as much as I enjoyed writing him.


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